29
The chef who serves us is French.
He’s also short, round, and wears a white double-breasted chef coat, a royal-blue neckerchief, and a white chef’s toque sunk so low on his head, I’m left with the impression of a set of bushy gray brows, a wide baguette of a nose, a thick curlicue mustache, and pretty much nothing else. He looks so much like a cartoon chef I once saw in a movie, I can’t help but wonder if, like the butterfly, he’s not actually real.
“Try not to get used to lunching like this,” Arthur says. “It’s not the normal menu.”
Though I have no idea why he’s going to such lengths to impress me, I give my full attention to the meal, and with every mouthwatering bite, I can’t help but think how much Mason would love this.
Arthur raises his glass of wine. “I would offer to pour you some,” he says. “But seeing as you still have a few classes ahead…”
“About that—” I set down my fork, determined to make Arthur understand that whatever’s going on here, whatever this academy is about, I’m not a good fit. “I don’t think I’m cut out for this—whateverthisis.”
“How so?” He swirls his glass, watching the wine splash up and down the sides before he takes a tentative sip, seems to enjoy it, and takes another.
“Well, after looking at my schedule and all those aptitude tests, I’m thinking maybe I should just save you the trouble and leave before you waste any more time or money on—”
“Do you honestly take me for a fool?”
For the first time since the food arrived, Arthur has stopped eating, stopped drinking, stopped fussing with his fork and knife, to concentrate fully on me. And the result makes me wish I hadn’t said anything.
“Do you honestly think I’d go to all the expense of bringing you here if I thought you had nothing to offer in return?”
I gulp. My breath grows unnaturally thin. And before I can stop it, my mouth falls wide open and a whole heap of nonsense spills out. “No. Of course not. I only meant—”
Thankfully, Arthur stops me before it can get any worse. “Believe me, I’ve seen it all.” He waves a hand that makes the cherry blossoms, the sparkling river, and the butterflies all disappear. Leaving nothing to distract from Arthur’s weary gaze and the serious ferocity behind every word. “Do you know why I’ve managed to become so successful?”
I fidget with my napkin. He can’t actually expect me to answer.
“It wasn’t because I was a tech whiz, or child prodigy, or whatever story you may have heard. It’s because I use my eyes for seeing.”
My fingers still. I have no idea what that means. I mean, don’t we all?
“I’ve been heralded as a futurist, a dreamer, an outlier, a genius…” With a turn of his wrist, he waves the accolades away like one might flick away a fly. “And it always reminds me of the quote by Schopenhauer:Talent hits a target no one else can hit. Genius hits a target no one else can see.”
I swallow past the lump in my throat. Press a hand to my belly and will it to calm.
“What truly separates me from everyone else isn’t the score on my IQ test. What’s lifted me above the horde isvision.” He assesses me with a narrowed gaze. “Have you ever heard of the invisible-ships phenomenon?”
I shake my head, take a nervous sip of my water.
“It is said that when Captain James Cook arrived at the coast of Australia back in 1770, the natives completely ignored their arrival because the fact that they’d never seen a ship before left them literally unable to perceive the very ship that appeared off their shores. According to the captain’s journal, not a single native looked up.”
“Is that true?” My fingers seek the stem of my water glass. “Because honestly, it sounds pretty implausible. I mean, maybe the natives did see it and they were left unimpressed by the view. Sounds to me like Cook was annoyed they didn’t all stop what they were doing to admire his ride. At best, it’s petty. At worst, it’s totally racist.”
Arthur nods. “I’ve heard the same story attributed to Columbus in 1492, and Magellan in 1520. And from what I’ve seen, you’re probably right. It’s yet another grossly exaggerated myth used to serve their own narrative. Still, while the teaching is a mess, the message is solid—most peopledosurrender their sight early on. They allow themselves to see only what other people tell them is possible. But I’ve always been different. Since a young age, I’ve peered at the world through a deeply curious lens, and I routinely challenge myself to see far beyond the accepted societal perceptions. Thanks to my vast collection of art, my eye for beauty is world renowned. But what most people fail to understand is that my vision far surpasses anything they’d even dare to imagine. And it all begins here.”
He leans back in his seat, lifts his wineglass to the room at large, then takes a slow, thoughtful sip, allowing me time to process his words.
But honestly, there’s not enough time in the world.
“I—I’m afraid I don’t understand,” I stammer, cringing at my inability to grasp at his meaning. I feel like a bumpkin, even more like I don’t belong in this place. I’m not used to having conversations like this or, hell, actually using more than one fork for my meals. Clearly, he can see that. So, why does he insist on keeping me here?
“Of course you don’t understand,” he says. “Everything here is new and unfamiliar, and your coping skills could use a little work. So, rather than allow yourself time to adjust, you’ve created an idealized version of your past and convinced yourself that it’s true.”
The steady set of his gaze, combined with the slight lift of his brow, tells me he will not be played. Not by me or anyone else.
“You’ve built up quite a misty-eyed story in your head,” he continues, “but tell me—if I were to grant your wish and send you back home, what exactly would you be returning to? Go ahead, close your eyes, and tell me what you see.”